Till Human voices wake us and we drown
by Sakura's Pointe Shoes
Summary: Jed Bartlet dreams.  CJ/Jed


A/N: Hi everyone! I'm a new author in the West Wing fandom but I'm a longtime fan of the show. I've fallen completely in love with CJ/Jed. They are lovely together and I hope I captured the feel of both of their characters as well as the dynamic of their relationship. This fic is on the angst-y side, so just be warned, and it was inspired by TS Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" which is where I got the title from. I was also inspired by Duckie Nicks' fic "No Questions Asked" and Regency's fic "Playing Pretend." I only hope that I've done the CJ/Jed ship justice.

Disclaimer: I don't own the West Wing, CJ Cregg, Jed Bartlet, or Abbey Bartlet, this is purely for fun and no money is being made off of this.

'**Till Human voices wake us and we drown**

He was awoken by a faint breeze that swept the veranda. Shifting slightly, he winced when he realized that his arm from his elbow to his fingertips was numb. He hated dozing off in the middle of the afternoon. It left him in a lurch and the fog in his mind that greeted him upon waking was taking a little longer to lift these days.

The weather was particularly wonderful today, the sun half hidden behind thin, filmy clouds, and the distant rumble of the ocean the only noise in the background. He left the windows in the front of the house open so as to allow the breeze to pass through unimpeded. Not to mention that she liked it when the long white curtains fluttered serenely as she walked through the foyer.

His eyes narrowed when he spotted her approaching the house, padding along barefoot in the sand. He surmised that she had been out for a swim although she knew that he preferred that she didn't go out there by herself.

"You let me sleep." What was meant to be casual came out as mildly petulant.

She grinned as if she found his mock sulkiness the most endearing thing in the world. Right away his irritation disappeared as he watched a few droplets of salt water run down her neck. She wore a simple black swimsuit with a matching sarong tied around her stomach. Her hair, which was longer than she ever allowed it to be while they were in office, fell over one of her bare shoulders.

He stood when she moved closer; the height difference had long ago ceased to be awkward.

"I'm sorry. You looked like you needed to rest."

"Did you just call me grandpa?"

She swatted his arm playfully while he chuckled. He followed her inside so he missed the expression of contentment that crossed her face when she saw that the windows were open and the curtains were moving softly with the wind.

* * *

The sun had finally set. He was supposed to be reading the novel he held in his hands but his eyes kept wandering back to her as she toweled off her hair. Dinner had been a simple affair, followed by their usual ceremony of cleaning up everything they used during said dinner. Now they were getting ready to settle down for the evening and he just couldn't stop looking at her. It was almost as if he was afraid that she'd be gone if he turned his attention elsewhere, and it would just be him alone in the empty, drafty house they had come to call home.

"What's wrong? You've been quiet all day."

He sat up a little straighter at that. She was gazing at his reflection in her dresser's mirror.

"Not anything specifically."

She rolled her eyes and smirked as she turned around to face him, hands wringing the towel that was wrapped around the ends of her hair.

Prompted by her piercing stare, he admitted, "My thoughts keep rebounding between how absolutely stunning you are and what a lucky bastard I am."

He felt a little stupid after voicing his thoughts aloud but to his surprise, she stood and crossed the distance between her dresser and their bed to kiss him.

"Even if I weigh about eight hundred pounds?"

His book lay forgotten beside him. His hands moved to her stomach, touching her tentatively and he contemplated the life that lay nestled within her.

"You're only six months along. Just wait until your eight month mark!"

They both laughed and she went back to the bathroom to hang up her towel. He used the time to put his book on the bedside table and turn down the covers. By the time she came back to bed, he was tucked in and drifting off slightly.

"Sleeping already, grandpa?" She teased softly when she slid into bed next to him.

She scooted up close and molded her body to him, hugging his chest with one arm and letting one long, toned leg drape over his. He opened his eyes to look down and see her plant a kiss on his neck.

"We'll see what you say after I'm done with you," He growled.

They shared a silly moment that melted quickly into a sense of growing desire in both of them. He rolled her over so that he was on top and therefore in the best place to ravage her, starting with her lips, then jaw, then neck until they were both breathless.

Staring down at her, he was stricken once again by her beauty. Her skin was flushed becomingly and he struggled with himself as he felt how full her breasts had gotten because of the pregnancy.

He was going to kiss her again when she suddenly inhaled with a slightly pained look.

"What's wrong?"

It took a moment for her to find her voice.

"Your son is kicking me…He's moving around a lot tonight."

"Probably telling me to go away."

She waited for him to sit upright and then she took his hand and let him feel the movement of their child.

"Here, feel."

His palm rested on her firm abdomen, his fingers against the silk of her nightgown. So many thoughts raced through his head in that instant, the thrill of knowing that she was carrying their son because she loved him, the absurdity of how happy they were here in the middle of nowhere when they once lived in the very heart of the free world, and mostly how _much_ he adored her… The sheer amount of emotion that flooded him left him utterly speechless.

She knew what he was feeling. This was the man she'd scrutinized on television, the one she'd argued with, worked with, yelled at, laughed with, and cried with for years before they'd been intimate. She knew him possibly better than he knew himself.

He listened to her breathing while she slept; half tempted to succumb to the delicious darkness that was just beyond his reach. He kept her close in his embrace, his hand still on her stomach with her own on top of his. It was times like this when she was asleep and he was toeing the line between consciousness and oblivion that he couldn't help but think about things he normally didn't like to think about.

Did he ever notice her while he was in office? Notice her as a woman rather than the job that she was supposed to carry out? How many times had he blown her off because there was simply no time for niceties when international crises spontaneously erupted?

Did Abbey ever catch him looking at her when he thought no one was looking during the occasional state dinner? How many times had he felt like throttling someone every time he overheard about her dates with other men?

He had no answers to these questions. It made him tired to think about all the lost time. He inhaled and let her scent wash over him. Lemon verbena and something else he couldn't quite name, something clean and calming that inexplicably lingered on all of their pillows.

* * *

He woke up in a cold sweat, scrambling to get his bearings despite his complete disorientation. He wasn't aware he had cried out until a hand on his chest shook him out of it.

"Jed! Jed, what's wrong?"

The words were so familiar but were delivered in a voice so wrong that he felt slightly sick. He fought to steady his breathing and he leaned back into the pillows. He was in his bedroom in the Residence. He was still President of the United States of America. He was still married to Abbey Bartlet.

He looked over at his tousled wife, the remains of sleep still all over her face. She looked bewildered and sleepy and he felt guilty for disturbing her.

"Sorry, sweetheart. It was…It was a nightmare."

"Want to talk about it?" She asked with a compassionate tone.

He shook his head wordlessly.

"I can't even remember what it was about," He lied.

"Okay." She glanced over at the clock on the bedside table. "It's two in the morning."

"Yeah. I'm sorry, Abbey."

"Just try to get some more sleep."

She pecked him on the cheek and turned over to her side, pulling the comforter over her shoulder. He looked at her briefly and then at his trembling hands. The utter loss that he felt was tearing at him. He felt a lot older than he had in a long time and he wondered if he could ever recreate that dream, if he would ever feel like _that_ again.

What really got him was the scent of lavender that pervaded the room. But how could he miss something that he never had? He faced the opposite wall and closed his eyes. What would he have named the boy? What would she have wanted to name their son?

Once again, he had no answers to these questions.

Sleep came, and his tears flowed down his cheeks as freely as the curtains had swayed in the wind.


End file.
